


The Most Delicate Things

by whitherwaywill



Series: one chapter wonders [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, F/M, Triwizard Tournament, canon compliant if you squint, post second trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitherwaywill/pseuds/whitherwaywill
Summary: Fleur failed in the Second Trial. She failed her sister, she failed her school... she failed herself. How can she trust her inner strength if she's the only one who can see it?
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Viktor Krum
Series: one chapter wonders [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689838
Kudos: 2





	The Most Delicate Things

Fleur couldn't stop shivering after she had been rescued from the Black Lake.

It was this awful island, she decided, after eight straight hours of vibrating where she stood. This awful country was too cold. She was certain she hadn't been able to feel her toes since she left Beauxbatons.

The swim in the Black Lake hadn't helped matters. For Merlin's sake, who decided that going for a swim in Scotland, in _February,_ was a good idea? Fleur was beginning to think that this ridiculous tournament was a death match, and the aim was to kill one of the competitors.

She shuddered, remembering the Grindylows. They had found her well before she even got to the bottom of the lake, with their long, pinching fingers and needle-sharp teeth. She had been dragged to the surface, rescued like a damsel in distress, not a competitor in the Triwizard Tournament. And Gabrielle...

Well, Gabrielle had been fine, hadn't she? Noble Harry Potter had rescued her alongside his own person. Fleur hadn't been able to contain her gratitude; she had almost been in hysterics as they waited for the task to conclude, imagining Gabrielle's death beneath the dark, icy waters over and over again. Drowned, eaten by mermaids, torn apart by Grindylows – each imagined scenario had been worse than the last.

But Gabrielle had been fine. And once Fleur had been reassured of her sister's safety, she couldn't keep the bitter, sickening thoughts away.

Fleur had failed. She was everything the rest of the world thought her to be: weak, silly, empty-headed, _beautiful._ The goblet had probably chosen her for the tournament in the same bout of idiocy that led it to spit out Harry Potter's name. She was an accident, a weak woman playing a man's game.

Her failure to save her sister had made that crystal clear to her.

After that revelation had hit her with the force of a speeding Hippogriff, she couldn't stay in the Beauxbatons carriage, where her schoolmates fawned over her with sickening pity. Poor Fleur, out of her depth in this tournament for _real_ wizards; poor Fleur, who might've lost her sister to the lake due to her own incompetence.

Fleur couldn't stand it. She escaped to the castle under the pretense of exploration, heavily implying that she was going to meet up with her date from the Yule Ball. Merlin, she couldn't even remember his name – was it Richard? Robert? All these English boys looked the same.

By no design of her own, she found herself standing in an open tower, surrounded by telescopes, of all things. "What in Merlin's name…" she muttered to herself in French, suppressing a shiver. This school got more and more incomprehensible every time she took a closer look at it.

"Astronomy," a deep voice said, and Fleur startled, her hand going to her wand. Clutching her wrap, she turned in a circle.

"'Oo ees zhere?" she called out, gripping her wand with a steady hand despite the cold.

A man unfolded himself from the shadows and slowly came into the dim light from the moon, holding his hands up as if to say 'I am not a threat'. "It is the Astronomy Tower," he said in a gruff voice. She recognized the accent first — he was one of the Durmstrang students, not a ridiculous British boy. Then she recognized him.

Viktor Krum.

She would have had to live under a rock not to know his face. Despite the fact that she didn't follow Quidditch, she still recognized those thick eyebrows, and that face, surprisingly soft without his customary scowl.

"Ah," she said, folding her arms and slipping her wand away as though she hadn't for a moment been afraid that the ghost of You-Know-Who was haunting the Tower.

"Vhy are you here?" He drew level with her, towering over her as they looked out at the cursed Black Lake. "It is too cold –"

"Ze castle inside ees just as cold." Fleur sniffed, gripping her elbows tighter. She had come here to wallow in her own misery. If she wanted to freeze to death –

Krum shrugged his cloak off, and offered it to her. She glanced from him to it with wide eyes. What was he doing? Would he not freeze himself without it?

"Non, non." She shook her head, gesturing for him to take it back. "I cannot."

More importantly, she could not accept his clothing from him. She had seen the Veela-touched before; encouraging them would only make things worse, in the long run.

"Durmstrang is also cold," he said in almost flawless French. Shocked, Fleur forgot to protest his giving her his cloak. He wrapped it around her, the thick fur falling against her shoulders. "I am fine."

"You speak French?" Fleur asked. Speaking her native language felt like a warm bath after a long day. Viktor tilted his head to the side in a slight nod. "Wonderful."

It came out with more snark than she would have liked. This was a boy – no, a man — who was purported to be a powerful wizard. She should let her shoulders fall back, and roll her weight onto her heels in the way she had practiced for so long so that she lost some of her height. She should let herself appear weak, so that he would feel strong, and more susceptible to her inherent powers –

Merlin. Fleur's shoulders sagged, and she unconsciously tugged his cloak tighter. She couldn't dredge up the effort to seduce yet another swain. She just wanted to sit and contemplate how horrid Scotland was. She wanted to – she wanted to have a moment to be _herself_.

Fleur knew she was strong, but she never felt weaker than when she was surrounded by admirers.

Viktor, unfortunately, did not pick up on her desire for silence.

"Do they not teach warming charms at Beauxbatons?" he inquired, a gentile smile on his face. It was an unfamiliar sight, so different from his usual stoic countenance that Fleur recoiled. His cloak seemed to gain several pounds, his question hanging in the air. Fleur shrank under the weight, lead piling in her stomach as she prepared to play the game.

"They do," she said coyly. "I could not be troubled to do one for myself."

"You must allow me to –"

Fleur could feel the freezing water chilling her bones, the slimy, stick-like Grindylow fingers pinching at her skin. Suddenly, she lost all desire to toy with the man beside her. She simply didn't have the energy, she told herself. Viktor Krum deserved better.

"Why are you here?" she changed the subject abruptly. The conversation was hovering dangerously close to what might be called flirtation. For some reason, it made her feel sick. She couldn't stand for _Viktor Krum_ to be just another boy felled by her Veela charm. "Where is your British rose?"

"Ah." He drew back, watching Fleur with eyes that saw too much. "I believe… I will no longer pursue her. She is a lovely girl, but I am not her type."

Fleur raised her eyebrows. She wouldn't have pegged Granger as one of those – the girl hadn't even been fazed by Fleur's beauty. Viktor seemed to read her mind, following her train of thought and snorting.

"Red hair?" he elaborated. "Gryffindor?"

She shook her head. There were far too many boys in Gryffindor with red hair and freckles, so that description barely narrowed down who Granger's paramour was. Fleur found she didn't care. The girl was welcome to whatever British schoolboys she desired. Fleur herself couldn't wait to get back to the sun in France.

Viktor leaned against the wall, observing her with shrewd eyes. "I was visiting the – the room with many owls when I saw you. I had thought you might want some company. After today…"

Fleur flinched away from his perceived pity. "If I wanted compliments and sympathy and - and pretty words, I would have stayed in the Beauxbatons carriage."

"Would you like me to tell you that you are not beautiful?" he asked conversationally. "It would be a lie, of course. You are as beautiful as the first morning rays of sunlight."

"Dainty," Fleur snorted, a bitter, acrid taste in her mouth. "Delicate."

He couldn't surprise her; at this point, no man could. It was always the same compliments, fed to her with a different garnish. She was beautiful, she was gorgeous, she was dainty as a flower, and wouldn't she like a big, strong man to protect her?

"Hmm." Viktor studied her. She felt bare beneath his gaze, like he was looking straight through her Veela veneer into her soul lying underneath. "There is a flower that grows on Durmstrang's grounds," he said tangentially, apropos of nothing apparent. "It will not grow in our greenhouses. Instead, it lives on the icy tundra. In the summer, it blooms in the most vibrant of colors, delicate, beautiful petals opening for the sun."

Fleur's lips parted, and she couldn't look away from him as he spoke. She felt herself gravitating towards him slowly, the moonlight illuminating the two of them.

"Every winter, it snows and storms and drops to temperatures that you could not even dream of. Every winter, the flowers disappear under a heavy layer of snow and ice, heavy enough that I fear they will not survive. Yet every spring, they bloom again."

Viktor stepped away from the wall, right into Fleur's personal space, and lifted a hand, gently cupping her cheek. His fingers were rough, calluses from holding a broom scraping softly against her skin.

"The most delicate things," he said softly, his voice husky, "can withstand the most terrible trials."

She swayed into him, closing the space between them. His hands steadied her, solid and warm at her hips, and he lowered his head until they were sharing the same breath. It seemed as though he was content to stay like this forever, barely touching, merely enjoying each other's warmth.

Fleur stretched up those last few centimeters and kissed him.

His lips were warm, scorching, and she felt bathed in fire as she reached up to twine her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer, clutching at her waist. She barely noticed as his cloak fell off her shoulders, didn't even register the frigid air as it hit her skin.

Fleur was aflame. His shoulders hit the wall behind them, and still she pressed forward, desperate to get even closer to him. He was no less eager, hands roaming her body and holding her tight to him. It was everything, and it was magic, and it was so very different from when she kissed boys who backed her up against the wall and hissed pretty platitudes into her ear. Boys who kissed her like she would break at any moment, who kissed her like she was both a reward and a _thing_ they were owed.

She couldn't get enough.

It was minutes, or maybe hours, before they parted, pulling just far away enough to look into each other's eyes. His were a warm tawny hazel, so different from the various French blues Fleur was accustomed to. Viktor looked at her with such open honesty that she ached.

"I would like to see you again," he murmured, his breath mingling with hers.

"I would," she paused, licking her sore lips, "I would like that."

He grinned, a genuine smile that she had never seen before. "May I walk you to your room, Miss Delacour?"

Fleur found herself echoing his smile, taking his hand instead of his elbow like a proper pureblood girl would do. "You may walk me to the carriage."

It was still cold, but Fleur was inexplicably warm as he picked up his cloak and replaced it on her shoulders. The Grindylows and other terrors of the Black Lake felt further and further away as his hand enveloped hers, and he led her away from the edge of the tower.

She stopped in the doorway, and he was drawn to a halt by her hand. He didn't begin to flutter, insecure in his ignorance of what she was thinking like so many other boys she'd known. He simply waited, a small smile curving his lips.

Fleur knew she was strong. She knew she was a formidable witch in her own right; that her beauty only enhanced her magical power. But this - to have someone outside of herself able to see it? It was exhilarating, intoxicating like nothing she had ever known.

"I'm going to win, you know," she whispered, thinking of the tournament she performed so poorly in today.

His eyes glittered as he bowed over her hand, and she felt a thrill sizzle through her. This, this was better than any insipid compliments showered on her by limpid, silly schoolboys. Schoolboys who would run in the opposite direction if she so much as hinted that she had more going on under her Veela façade than they could guess.

Magic crackled between them like an invisible force field. Fleur's heart began to race as she waited for him to respond.

"I do not doubt your strength."


End file.
